


Aerouant

by Phileas



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dragons, Gen, It's very vaguely E/R if you squint toward the end.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 13:11:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8981131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas/pseuds/Phileas
Summary: Joly and Bossuet's shop is full of dragons, Grantaire's hands are full of suitcases, and Courfeyrac is full of mixed feelings.Also, a table is on fire and Combeferre could have done without this happening today.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temperamental_mistress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/gifts).



> This has not been beta-read due to a very rushed schedule. I also apologize for the delay in posting, it's been a little bit complicated around here these past few months. (It WILL be beta-read in the next couple weeks. I promise.)  
> I hope you enjoy this story, and that it fulfills the prompt as you hoped it would!

Paris hadn’t changed, Grantaire thought as he came out of the train station.  
He looked right and left and, holding his suitcases in both hands, he crossed the street to the omnibus station. He bought a ticket with the conductor and sat near a window. On his shoulders, Amour and Liberté were whistling and chirping happily. They, too, had missed Paris. Gently, he scratched under Liberté’s chin and smiled to himself. He would certainly miss Budapest, but home was and would always be here. His dragon purred and gnawed on his ear as the conductor announced the next stop, rue Rambuteau. Grantaire took the two white suitcases he had put by his feet and got up. The day was not over yet and he had business and pleasures to attend to. 

Said day had started under the best auspices. Joly had gotten up quite cheerful and had had the most enjoyable breakfast of toasted gâche and crème caramel, a black tea and a sliced orange. Bossuet had joined him half an hour later, adding a good morning kiss to his menu, and had put his coffee pot to brew on the gas stove. Joly had then gone to the bathroom to freshen up, shooing Feydeau from the sink, and Labiche from the tub. The two dragons had then joined Bossuet in the kitchen and Joly could hear him cooing at the pair and probably feeding them inappropriate amount of orange slices. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. He couldn’t wait to open the nursery downstairs. 

The nursery was Bossuet’s pride and joy. He owned it with Joly and they raised all sorts of dragons down there, and cared for some more. After breakfast, he put Feydeau in his breast pocket and patted Labiche’s head before going down the stairs and crossing the courtyard to open the back door to their boutique. A raucous noise greeted him and he called back to all the small dragons asking for food with more or less impatience. Joly joined him a few minutes later, turned the oil lamps on, and together they set to feed the hordes of famished beasts. As he looked at his husband feed a green Sigurddraak, Bossuet smiled and got so distracted that a Montmartre Redtail stole half his bowl of meat before he even began to realise something was amiss. 

The top of Montmartre was still extremely cold toward the end of the morning, and Jehan was glad he had thought to take his gloves with him to this little walk. He took a franc from his coat pocket and put it in the huge brass binoculars in front of him. The view was delightful, but he pointed his lenses to the skies, trying to catch a glimpse of his dragon. “Myrto, la jeune Tarantine”, who usually went by the much simpler name “Myrto”, was bothering a flock of pigeons and flying in circle as if in pursuit. Jehan let out a laugh that could have passed for a sigh and moved his hands in an agitated, yet graceful, manner in the direction of his dragon. Myrto trilled and dropped straight toward Jehan, gripping his scarf with her claws and half chocking the young man, causing him to fall from the small pedestal he had climbed onto in order to use the binoculars. His pants were drenched now; he would have to go change before he went to the café. 

The café was pretty crowded and Bahorel had just given his order to the waiter when he saw Jehan cross the street. He waited until the young man had pushed the door open to call out to him in a booming voice and laughing at the deep shade of carmine flooding his cheeks. From Bahorel’s breast pocket, Blanqui let out a deep rumble and jumped out to greet Myrto. Blanqui was a very young and small Montmartre Redbreast. Joly and Bossuet had told him that he would fit in his pocket for about a year before growing to the size of a very big cat. Bahorel embraced Jehan with much effusion and gently, but in a manner suffering no refusal, sat him down in front of him.  
“I ordered for the five of us, the place is packed and their plat du jour sounds quite respectable. Feuilly should join us soon.” 

Feuilly was late. He was very, very late. Jogging toward the tramway station, he looked at his pocket watch and swore between his teeth. His shift at the factory had finished on time but the foreman had wanted to chat and now he was late. His hands still smelled of copper and soldering iron, and he barely had the time to grab his flat cap before clocking out. He boarded the tramway through the rear door and gave his ticket to punch out to the pointer. He had left his dragon at the nursery with Joly and Bossuet, and would get her back after lunch. Mrs Markievicz, sometimes but all in all quite rarely referred to as “Constance”, was an Irish blue-feathered Arach that had been living with Feuilly for as long as he could remember. She liked to rub her snout against Bossuet’s head and, to the delight of the man itself, and all present spectators. Feuilly smiled a little bit to himself and got out of the tramway when it reached Les Halles. He was starving and knowing Bahorel, the man had already ordered and the food would be waiting for him on the table. 

The table was on fire and Courfeyrac had mixed feelings about it. On one hand, he technically wasn’t the one to start it this time, and could be considered a perfectly innocent bystander to the tragic end of the table. On the other hand, Hestia’s snoot was still fuming and her big soulful eyes bore into his, as if to ask if he was proud of her great accomplishment. Granted, he had been a questionable role model for his dragon when it came to setting things on fire and, granted, he had been quite agitated, not to say upset, at some papers he had been reading. It was possible that Hestia, faithful, generous, helpful Hestia, had thought that shortcutting to straight up burning the table would please her human. This was the point that Courfeyrac couldn’t seem to settle on. From the other side of the room, Combeferre and Enjolras started in aggravation and he felt all the cooing noises he was about to direct at Hestia die in his throat. Smiling to his friend, he said:  
“Maybe one of you could grab a wet towel and we could forget this incident entirely. The table was in a dreadful state anyway.” 

The table had been perfectly fine, Combeferre thought before getting up to beg a wet towel from the kitchen of the café. How were they going to explain this one, he didn’t know yet, but The Hucheloup couple was used to them by know, and Courfeyrac would pay for the table. As he always did. As he threw the wet rag onto the small fire, he sighed and looked in the corner where Platon and Patria were cuddling by the window. Courfeyrac had to choose a fire breather, didn’t he? He sat back next to Enjolras and smiled softly before starting their conversation where they had left it. They didn’t go very far before loud cries of joy startled them into looking up. Grantaire had entered the café and half of their group had risen in greetings. He had been gone for almost a year, exploring Eastern Europe and its dragon population, but had written regularly to them all. He had sent to Combeferre some exquisite cyanotypes from Ukraine, and he had seen the marvelous Polish photographs that had been sent to Feuilly. 

The most Enjolras had seen of Grantaire this past years had been through photographs he had sent back to Paris from all the cities he visited. He knew other people had received varied letters and pictures on varied subjects, but all Grantaire seemed to send him were pictures of his two dragons, in particular Amour, in various silly situations. Enjolras was fine with this. In fact, Patria had missed Amour and Liberté quite a lot and she liked to look at the pictures Enjolras had tacked near her nest and chirp in a manner than Enjolras liked to imagine was fond and a little bit longing. Speaking of them, the two dragons did not take long to find her across the room and the three of them were now cuddling under the patient eyes of Platon. He smiled and got up to greet is friend. It was one thing to receive so much Amour by the post, and another to have it delivered to you in person. And he too, had missed Grantaire.


End file.
